A Neat Monster
by roominthecastle
Summary: Tom takes drastic steps to finish up his assignment. Red and Liz deal with the consequences.
1. Chapter 1

**disclaimer**: not mine

* * *

Her legs buckle. Leaden exhaustion pulls her down on the couch. She hears him but the words don't register. Nothing seems to register anymore. Her stained fingers curl into the soft cushion, gripping it tight, trying to hold on to something. Anything. She can't recall how they got here. She remembers pulsing red and blue. And shouting. Rain. Tom. And blood. Fragments. Painful splinters of memory that burrow deeper with each attempt to join them up into a whole. So she stops trying. For now. She doesn't touch them. She doesn't move. She just sits, empty and wordless, with skinned knuckles and muddy shoes.

"Lizzie."

Her name wrapped in his voice finally penetrates her fatigued haze. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Because all your FBI friends can offer you right now is a nice blanket and a never-ending barrage of questions. Both of which are utterly useless at the moment."

"What can you offer?"

"A safe place," he answers, shrugging out of his jacket. "And some time to process what happened."

_What happened?_ she wants to ask but the words get stuck and sink back. She doesn't look at him. She can't. She stares at one of the expensive-looking knick-knacks on the elegant coffee table in front of the couch, briefly wondering whose home they are "borrowing" right now. There is an undeniable upside to Red's hermit crab-like practices but she couldn't live like this. The beauty that surrounds them feels alien.

As if he could read her mind, he sweeps the smallish table clean of every object, then sits down on it. Their knees touch but she doesn't move. There's a small first aid kit in his lap. He soaks a piece of gauze with antiseptic liquid, then gently pulls her hand into his. "This is not gonna be pleasant," he warns her, then starts dabbing at the raw patches of skin. Her fingers flex and unflex, but she endures the process silently. He doesn't speak either. She watches him as he cautiously and meticulously cleans her hands of dirt and blood.

"I hate you," she says after a long stretch of silence. Her voice is hollow, barely above a whisper. It's one final, desperate grab for some semblance of control but her grip slips. She doesn't sound convincing enough - not even to her own ears. Why can't she hate him? Why isn't she allowed at least that much satisfaction? Their eyes lock. He doesn't say anything. As usual, he seems unaffected but she sees a spark of emotion. A small twitch under his eye. He waits. "You…" she continues, "… you destroyed everything I had."

He lowers his eyes and grabs another piece of gauze from the kit. "The things you had," he says, his tone low and even, "were not worth preserving, Lizzie." He doesn't patronize her. He states a cold hard fact she hasn't quite come to terms with.

"That's what you decided," she says.

"No." He soaks the sterile fabric and turns her hand palm up. He studies her scar. Runs his thumb along its edge. "That's what you decided when you trained your gun at the man masquerading as your husband, and pulled the trigger." When he looks back up, he finds her staring back at him with mounting intensity. "I think it was the right decision."

"You're hardly an objective bystander."

He holds her gaze. There's a long pause. A slight twitch - this time in his shoulder. The armor of easy-going indifference is cracking. He bites the inside of his lower lip, not allowing any words to escape. It's a momentary success in a battle already lost.

"You're loving this, aren't you?" she asks, her voice full of tears and accusing.

His jaw clenches. "I am not."

"I don't believe you."

He inhales deeply. Silently. "I care about you."

"You're a liar."

"I love you."

The simple, unceremonious confession throws her. It's followed by ringing silence but she is quick to push back. She doesn't even want to begin to comprehend what sick, twisted meaning he might associate with those three words. "You're a liar."

"And I love you," he repeats. His demeanor still feels casual, detached even, but his eyes flash with emotion.

His mere presence stings and burns like antiseptic. "I hate you," she whispers.

"Lizzie—"

"I hate you," she repeats, much louder this time as if volume could lend credence to her declaration.

He regards her quietly, then tilts his head. "Who's the liar now?"

She keeps her eyes fixed on him. That's all she can do. Then something gives way. The numbness finally cracks and the chaos churning inside her rushes to find an outlet. Soon she feels the tears. They roll down her cheeks in silence. He doesn't try to wipe them away. He doesn't move to sit next to her. He doesn't try to touch her. Not this time. This time he is simply there. With her. For her. If she needs more, it's up to her to reach out.

Once again, she refuses to look at him.

"I've been where you are now," he says. "It's…" he trails off, tasting then discarding a few words before finding the right one, "… disorienting." He packs away the gauze and the antiseptic. She sneaks a glance at him. A memory flickers across his features. "Like being pushed out of an airplane at 14,000 feet," he says, closing the kit and she quickly shifts her gaze. "If hating me makes you feel any better, then by all means, hate me, Lizzie. Hate me with all you've got for as long as you need. I promise I'll still love you with everything I have."

He waits a few seconds, letting it sink in, then rises to his feet. He's already at the door when her voice stops him.

"Why were you pushed out of that airplane?" she asks.

He turns back around. "Well… that's a long story."

She absently rubs her scar, then looks up at him. "Tell me."

He finds her a small smile and she scoots over a bit, making room for him on the couch. He flops down next to her and they study each other for a long moment. "This also falls under my immunity package," he reminds her and she gives him a small nod. "All right. Well, it all began on the island of Nauru with a man named Jubal. Fascinating character. Mad as a hatter. He made his fortune selling cremation jewelry and his Coupe de Ville cocktail is a killer. In this particular case, quite literally…"

He talks and talks for minutes on end.

He didn't lie.

It really is a long story.

And she doesn't mind at all.

She secretly wishes it could go on forever.

Because she finds peace in his voice**.**


	2. Chapter 2

**disclaimer**: not mine.

* * *

"And that's how I came to be tumbling through the troposphere at 120 miles per hour," he says. "Jubal was plummeting, too, but luckily, he had a parachute and I managed to grab onto him just in time. He cushioned my fall," Red says with a small grin.

"Were you scared?" she asks, already half-asleep.

He gives her a faint smile. "I was terrified. My mouth was so dry, I couldn't speak. I couldn't stand up. My hands kept shaking for hours," he says with laughter in his voice. "Oh it was a blast."

She regards him. Raymond Reddington being terrified. From the outside, it's probably not much different from him being content or worried or angry. He's annoyingly good at hiding. He hides even when he stands right in front of someone. But, at the very least, she can see him hide now.

"Yes...?" he prompts, his voice pulling her out of her reverie.

She must have been staring at him for a while. "I'm just trying to picture what it looks like."

Amused, he tilts his head.

"You being scared," she says, answering his silent question.

His amusement fades. His gaze drops. He looks at her bruises and she feels a rush of confusion. She clearly has an effect on him but it's a puzzling one that feels beyond her control.

"You did scare me today," he says after a long pause, then glances back up at her. "For a moment, I thought I lost you," he admits.

"Is that why you were in such a hurry to stash me away?"

He hesitates, then gives in. "Yes."

"Can I leave?"

"You're not my prisoner."

And yet she feels chained to him. Feels pulled. "What, then?" she asks. "What am I to you?"

He looks at her, taking his time. "Everything, Lizzie," he says at last. His voice is thick and gravelly and soothing. "You are everything."

A tiny, involuntary smile tugs at her lips. "That's not a real answer, Red."

Sounds of knocking shatter the fuzzy stillness. Dembe appears at the door. Red gives him a small nod, then looks back at Liz.

The mood shifts again.

The soft playfulness is gone. A smile still shadows his lips but she feels him tensing up. It affects her, too.

"I need to take care of something but I'll be back soon," he says and gets to his feet. So does she - with surprising speed - and their bodies collide. She quickly steadies herself but he doesn't move and she gets stuck between him and the couch.

"I have to... I have to call Cooper and... I-I need to go home," she says. All of a sudden, her body is vibrating with a hazy sense of urgency - a gnawing need to take action. Any action.

He knows the feeling. He also knows how unwise it is to react blindly and impulsively. That's the only reason Tom Keen is still alive.

"Your home is a crime scene, Lizzie," he reminds her. His gaze is dark and tinged with a distant, dull ache. "It's not safe. Not yet."

_Not yet._ Those two words set off alarm bells in her brain. "Are you going to kill him?" she asks point blank.

There's a pause. He considers her question, then answers it with one of his own: "Do you want me to kill him?"

She remains silent, her tearful gaze fixed on him. She starts to unravel again. How did things get so messed up so fast? A year ago she was planning to start a family with Tom and now a tiny part of her wants to give consent to his murder. She pushes the thought away and inhales, clearing her head and pulling herself together. That tiny part is not in control yet. "What good would that do?"

He regards her silently. A sad, faint smile curves his lips. "Yes. Unfortunately, dead people make subpar conversationalists," he says. "And there are some questions our dear Tom must answer."

"You know where he is?" It sounds more like a statement.

"In hospital," he says. "They are keeping him overnight. Agent Cooper will have him transferred tomorrow morning."

Her eyes narrow. "So he didn't run."

"He's not finished. Whatever he had planned is still in play."

"If you go, I'm coming with you."

He shakes his head. "No."

"It wasn't a request."

"You're exhausted and emotional," he says.

Her eyes flash with anger. "Says the embodiment of impartiality," she counters.

He grinds his molars, fixing her with a stare. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Lizzie."

"I think it suits me just fine. But I still I can't let you kidnap and torture him."

"He tried to kill you."

"Yes, I know. I was there," she says. Apparently, he is rubbing off on her a little bit. "And I want him to pay. I want answers but we need to do this the right way. The smart way. You wanted to work with me, so work _with_ me."

"He doesn't deserve your protection."

"It's not him I'm trying to protect."

Her declaration catches him by surprise but he is careful not to show it. He doesn't say anything, either. The silence grows thick and heavy between them. It starts to fill up with hesitance and rapid heartbeats. Hope wells up in him but he remains still. Waiting. Eyes locked on her. What happens next must be her choice. Pushed by a strange, vague need, she moves closer. Her hand drifts to his, and her fingertips lightly brush against his wrist, then trail down along the back of his hand, sliding over the ridges of arteries and knuckles. It's a warm, exploratory touch. Light but intimate. Cautious but curious. His jaw muscles clench and unclech. His pupils dilate. His breathing becomes slightly shallower. She enjoys the way his skin feels against hers. She enjoys the effects elicited by this simple physical contact. She enjoys that she's thrown him slightly off-balance and that he's struggling to hide. Then his eyes narrow. "Are you trying to seduce me?" he asks, his tone mock serious. He's trying to gain back control. Trying.

She withdraws her hand with a small, knowing smile. "No need. You've already decided to stay."

He tilts his head. "And what makes you think that?"

"You haven't moved since you got up."

* * *

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

**disclaimer**: not mine  
a/n: I apologize for not answering your comments to the previous chapter, guys. I had some technical issues but they are sorted now, so you'll be hearing from me soon.

* * *

She leans in.

Her attention shifts to his mouth.

Her intention is clear and his conflict is excruciating.

"You should try to get some rest," he says abruptly.

The sentence tears into both of them as it leaves his mouth. She raises her eyes but he doesn't meet her gaze. He can't.

Did she misread him too? His rejection is a slap in the face. It brings yet another burning wave of humiliation. She stands mute and frozen for a long moment, trying not to fall apart.

At last their eyes lock. Her pain is reflected in his.

"I thought you…" Her voice cracks and she trails off. _I thought you wanted this… Me. Us. _She can't bring herself to say any of it out loud. All of a sudden, it feels ridiculous - pathetic, even. "Never mind," she says quietly, then abruptly pushes past him.

The coffee table screeches against the floor as he moves to maintain his balance. He reaches out but doesn't touch her. "Lizzie, wait."

She doesn't.

Awkward and helpless, he lets his hand fall back to his side.

And he watches her walk away.

* * *

She is tossing and turning in bed, achy, tired and fully awake. According to the clock on the nightstand, it's almost 4 a.m. but her brain is still in overdrive, mercilessly replaying the past two years of her life - including that painful moment from a few hours ago. It's an elaborate and brutal exercise in self-flagellation. She rolls to her back with a tearful sigh and stares at the ceiling. Red was right. Again. It's like being pushed from a plane. Her world can't seem to stop spinning but there's no one to grab onto.

She chokes back a sob and forcefully swallows the pain. _Enough_. Her breathing slowly settles and after what feels like forever, her eyes finally drift shut.

But they don't stay like that for long.

She gets up, crosses to the door and pulls it open. The house is wrapped in soft, dark silence and she wanders back towards the living room.

There's dim light spilling from the kitchen.

She hesitates for a few seconds but curiosity gets the better of her. She stalks closer and soon sees him hunched over the kitchen island, eating. He's still wearing the same clothes, only his tie is missing. A floorboard creeks dryly under her weight and it draws his attention. She stops and leans against the door frame. They stare at each other silently in the semi-darkness.

He licks his fork. "You're up early," he jokes, casual, always feeling at home.

"I can't sleep."

He keeps his eyes on her for a long moment, then grabs another fork and slides it across the counter top. "Welcome to the club."

She stays put, eying him with arms wrapped around herself. She's wearing boxer shorts and a man's shirt. She found plenty of them in the bedroom closet - all in neat piles and original packaging. "I'm sorry," she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. He can tell she's uncomfortable. Nervous. "For the um… for before. It was…" she trails off, lost, then tries again: "It... _I_ was inappropriate and—"

He opens his mouth to say something but she doesn't - can't - let him interrupt her rationalization.

"It was textbook self-soothing behavior. Really. It… it won't happen again."

He swallows. His head bobs slightly as if he was about to nod but changed his mind halfway through.

Her gaze shifts, desperate to find something else to talk about. "What are you eating?"

After a short pause, he glances down at his plate. "Cheesecake."

"At 4 in the morning?"

"I had a craving," he admits simply, and despite everything, she smiles faintly. He returns it, then gently pats the stool next to his. "Sit."

After some hesitation, she moves. She goes around the island, takes the fork, then sits down. He pushes his plate closer. "Try it," he prompts her, taking another forkful into his mouth.

But she just sits quietly, staring at the elegant silver utensil cradled in her fingers. Soon there's a small clink and the soft rustle of a shirt sleeve as he puts his fork down. She can feel his gaze but she doesn't look up. Doesn't look at him. If she did, the tears might come again, so she keeps staring at her hands. The contusions. The wedding band.

Soon the silence gets pulled apart by his voice.

"Bringing you here was a… somewhat rash decision on my part," he confesses. "One that I'm sure will be sufficiently misconstrued by your coworkers." She slowly peers up at him and his lips twitch with a sad smile. "And I thought it imprudent to further complicate an already… complicated situation."

After a long pause, there's a spark of amusement in her eyes - tiny and thoroughly unexpected. "Well, I think this is hands down the fanciest 'it's not you' speech I've ever heard."

His lips curve. He shakes his head and the smile grows into laughter. It's deep, rich, soft and infectious, not the sharp, hollow kind with which he usually camouflages himself. She tilts her head, studying him, and he quiets down. Her gaze rests on him for a while - it's a pleasant, anchoring weight. He slowly turns in his seat. His hand slides closer to hers on the counter top but stops just before their fingers could touch. "You wanted us to go the smart way, Lizzie," he says. "Under the current circumstances, this is it."

Liz stares at the space between their hands. It should remain there, she knows. "Most of them already think I'm sleeping with you," she remarks, sounding as tired as she looks. Occam's Razor is a frequently wielded weapon at the Post Office. She learned soon enough that it's mostly useless against Red but the others appear more reluctant to accept that.

Not that it matters right now.

Right now all that seems to matter is the distance between fingertips. It can't be more than an inch and it's crammed with conflicted anticipation.

"You can't help what people think," he says and their eyes meet. He looks somewhat mournful - almost apologetic - and the subtle shift in his demeanor gives her a pause. A thought that's been quietly bothering her for some time simmers to the surface of her conscious mind.

"What happened on that Christmas Eve?" she asks after some hesitation.

He fixes her with a strange look. "You read my file," he replies. It's a non-answer. An evasion. Or an invitation, perhaps, to think further in a less _linear_ fashion, as he'd say. With him, it's often difficult to tell.

"I did," she says, holding his gaze. She read everything available to her on the murky subject of Raymond Reddington. She read and re-read them a thousand times. She even unearthed some old pictures. One was taken at his Naval Academy graduation in 1984. She conveniently forgot to return it with the rest of the documents.

He watches her intently. She still craves a distraction. Earlier he refrained from serving as such but now he decides to indulge her. "And...?" he prompts, further arousing her curiosity.

"And the more I get to know you, the less sense it makes," she says.

"Why?"

"You'd never have abandoned them."

In the ringing stillness, gratitude and relief flood him at once.

It catches him off guard.

_She_ catches him off guard. Again.

He stares at her in complete silence, grappling with a sudden, intense mixture of emotion, and his frame trembles slightly in the effort to hide it. She can see the bobbing of his Adam's apple, the twitch of his mouth, and the tipping of his head. But she can't possibly grasp how much he longed for her to see him the way she's beginning to - outside the rigid confines of tailored reports, clumsy debriefs, and her rather one-track training. _Your father would be so proud,_ he wants to say. He wants to say so many things but he can't bring himself to utter a word.

In the dim light, under the cold, blood-rusted shell of a monster, she catches sight of the man in that old picture she kept. The man who is now disoriented by pain and grief and not-knowing. Who has lost everything. Who is still searching, still trying to claw his way back to some semblance of personhood. Who is not entirely unlike herself.

She repeats her question, quieter and more cautious this time: "What happened?"

His eyes lower for a brief moment. He rolls his jaw around, chewing a mouthful of unsaid words, then: "I wish I knew," he admits. It's the truth. An open wound. He's a half-blind king ruling over a vast empire of information, and the cruel little irony isn't lost on either of them. "I've been trying to piece it together but... I just can't see the whole picture yet."

"Is that why you left, why you just… disappeared?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you came back?"

"It was one of the reasons."

"You think Tom knows something about it?"

This conversation is rapidly turning into an interrogation.

Her hunger for information makes his mouth twitch with a faint smile, and his gaze flickers to the fork in her right hand. It doesn't go unnoticed. While he isn't particularly worried about being stabbed again, the memory of their first heated clash is a vivid one still. With a fluid, elegant move, she turns the fork in her palm, so its sharp tines are no longer pointed at him. But she's still waiting for an answer.

"I doubt his knowledge extends much beyond the task at hand."

"Me."

He gives her a small nod. "But I'm sure the person or persons he works for are much more well-informed, and with the right incentive, Tom can lead us to them." She seems to consider this. "So good thing his head was left mostly intact," Red adds with a small quirk of his lips, trying to lighten the mood a little bit.

"Not for the lack of trying," she remarks and tries to smile. Tires. Then fails. Suddenly, everything that happened in the past few days comes crashing down on her again like a ton of bricks - the rubble of a perfect life. Perfectly fake. Ashen. Burnt to the ground. But the smoke still lingers. She can't seem to escape it. She can't even take that damn wedding ring off. Its mocking her in its clingy goldness.

_What do you __need__?_, she hears him ask.

He sounds distant.

Maybe she imagined the question.

Either way, it takes some time to formulate an answer. "I… I need to not feel like this anymore... like I'm suffocating," she says, her fingers curling into a strained fist, then flattening back against the counter's cool marble surface. "I need a 'here and now,' just… here and now, not 2 years ago or 20 steps ahead."

She's angry, tired, and rambling but he understands. He understands her perfectly and his hand moves, closing the gap and sliding over the back of her fingers - still mindful of her injuries.

She keeps her eyes on their hands, hears him stand, feels him step closer.

She's pulled up from her chair into a hug but it takes some time to relax into his embrace. The fork she's been clutching falls to the floor with a loud, metallic clank, and her arms slide up around his neck, pulling herself tighter against his body - so tight she can feel his heart hammering, feel his ribcage rising and falling against hers.

"Just breathe, Lizzie," he says, his voice soft and muffled by her mussed hair.

And she lets out a mute sigh.

Soon their inhales and exhales sync up, creating a soothing rhythm.

They still have a few hours left to sleep. Both of them are exhausted but neither seems intent on letting go of the other.

They rest in each other's embrace.

* * *

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

**disclaimer**: not mine

* * *

He is roused by warmth instead of the usual cold: a strip of sunlight has crept across his face. His eyes slowly drag themselves open. Liz is curled up next to him on the couch, fast asleep and still except for the rhythmic motions of her breathing.

They dozed off in a sitting position, leaning into each other. He feels his back protesting but he doesn't move just yet. Her fingers are still curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on, and her right hand is clasped in his. He can't feel her touch anymore because his arm has fallen asleep but their physical entwinedness fills him with a strange, exquisite mix of aching happiness. He watches her for a while, enjoying this rare, unexpected moment of serenity.

So profoundly mundane.

So terribly finite.

With great reluctance, he checks his watch. It's almost 7 a.m.

He shifts, pulling his numb arm free. "Lizzie."

She stirs. Her eyes open and slowly, she looks up at him.

"Good morning," he greets her quietly with a soft smile.

Her drowsy confusion slowly gives way to lucidity and mild awkwardness. Her hand slides off his chest and she pulls away.

But not too far away.

She rests her head against the back of the couch, mirroring him. Watching him. Taking him in. All of a sudden, a lot seems to be going on behind those blue eyes - a heavy mental catalog of everything that has happened, is happening and could happen.

"We need to get going soon," he says.

She nods.

He tilts his head.

But they don't get up.

Her eyes don't leave him. She seems to be waiting for something, something to be said or done, and suddenly he finds he has no idea what that might be. Then he sees it: the faint beginnings of a smile. She caught him again. She's learning to read him and she caught that flicker of uncertainty.

"Breakfast?" he inquires with raised eyebrows and fake nonchalance. He tries but he isn't fooling her. Not here. Not now. The faint upward curl of her lip remains.

"I can't even think about eating," she says.

His gaze shifts. His lips purse, then stretch into a fond smile. "Some of my best memories are food related," he says.

"That's because I've never cooked for you," she remarks.

Surprised, he looks back at her. "It can't be that bad."

"It's worse. Last Thanksgiving I almost killed T…" Her smile falters and dies on her lips along with the rest of the sentence.

They sink into silence. She stares at her hands and he watches her, wishing he could make this easier. But he can't. He shouldn't, either. It will serve her better in the long run. She needs to build up a tolerance.

Liz lets out a small laugh - mirthless and helpless -, shaking her head. "I keep forgetting…" she tries to explain, then peers up.

There's something hard and heavy in his gaze - and no pity. "I know," he says.

The past is like a lost limb. For fleeting moments, it can fool your mind into believing it's still there. It aches, it itches, it lures, it touches, it still _is, _still yours_,_ but when you reach for it, your fingers clutch cold air.

And you remember.

It's a cruel trick - a clever trap the suffering mind walks into over and over again, sometimes even deliberately. But traps are for dying.

So one day, if you're lucky, you reach out and find something tangible again. Something warm, alive, and real.

A present.

Maybe even a future.

A chance to belong again. And you can begin to forget.

"You can do this, Lizzie." She regards him wordlessly, searching his face. Her eyes continue to question him. "You're like me," he answers with a sort grin, half-teasing, half-reassuring. She doesn't protest this time, which pleases him. "You survive."

"Is that what you do?" she asks. "Survive?" He remains silent. "Right." She sighs, resigned, then rises to her feet. "It's never the whole picture with you, is it?"

He remains seated. "Do you want us to arrive separately?" he asks, changing the topic.

"I have nothing to hide."

He grins, his gaze sliding over her appreciatively. "Clearly," he remarks with a small nod.

The sunlight coming from behind her is making the borrowed shirt she's wearing almost completely transparent. She wraps her arms around herself, pulling the fabric tight, but she doesn't move. She lets him admire her for a few more seconds, waiting until their eyes meet.

He gets to his feet and draws closer. "I meant what I said last night," he says.

"Which part?" she asks.

"Every word," he answers quietly.

"Every word?" she repeats with a hushed tone of playful disbelief, wondering how it is possible to be so intimate with someone without really knowing him. Without actually touching.

"Yes," he confirms. "Three in particular."

Her eyes narrow. She's reluctant. Suspicious. Cautious. "You really shouldn't throw those around," she says. "It's _imprudent_," she adds, plucking a word from his extensive vocabulary and flinging it back in his face.

"Do you think me imprudent, Lizzie?"

"No," she answers. "You are, however, obsessive, manipulative and, according to the state of Maryland, still married."

He is silent for a long moment, then his gaze flickers to her ring. "So are you," he says, looking back at her, unfazed.

"Your wife's in WITSEC. Has been for 24 years."

He laughs and shakes his head - as if she just told him a great joke. "Yes. It's so… convenient, isn't it? Being relocated to some godforsaken town, well beyond the reach of every friend, relative, and… nosy FBI agent."

"But not yours, right?" she says. His harsh amusement dissolves but he doesn't answer. "Do you know where she is?"

Once again, his answer is silence, then a strange expression crosses his face. She's seen it before but can't quite place it. "Perhaps I'll take you to her one day," he says.

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

**disclaimer**: not mine  
**a/n**: plot-wise this fic is behind the show, so Liz still doesn't know about Red's involvement in Sam's death and "Berlin" isn't in the picture yet. I intend to work these in (and other canon developments as well), but I may go about things slightly differently, so... you have been warned. :)

* * *

Their car ride is short and quiet. They sit close but not too close. Her hand rests on the seat next to his but they don't touch. She's done cataloging her major mistakes and regrets (for the second time this morning), and her eyes begin to wander. There's a newspaper in his lap - folded and forgotten. He skimmed through it earlier but if he found something worthy of their attention, he has yet to inform her about it.

At the moment, he doesn't even seem to be aware of her presence. She steals glances at him but he keeps staring out the car window, silent, distant, looking at nothing and everything. His head lightly bobs or shakes _no_ every once in a while, as if sorting through a particularly messy pile of thoughts.

He's cataloging, too, but his lists seem longer. Much longer. He's made a second career of them.

For a fleeting moment, she feels tempted to touch him, so he would look at her, be with her, like before. She's been growing increasingly receptive to that effortless intimacy, she knows. It's addictive, and last night they were teetering on the edge of craving.

But this separate togetherness has a strange effect too. It's almost soothing.

It's his words she's still wary of. He wields them too well. _I love you. _She wishes he hadn't said that. She is not ready to hear words like these from anyone, especially from him. She can't unhear them either. They are like ghost voltage. He's still a question mark and she still has Tom to deal with. And a home that once again was turned into a crime scene. And the neighbors. Friends. Ellie. What is she gonna tell them? In the outside world there's no clear-cut procedure to fall back on. No wonder she let Red hide her away for the night. She didn't want to face all these people at once - strangers with familiar faces and assumptions and a flood of questions she couldn't possibly answer. They wouldn't understand anyway. They might not even believe her.

She glances at her pensive companion again. Is this how he felt too? How he still feels? Betrayed, mislabeled and isolated? Scared? Did he also find himself wanting to crawl back into the ghostly skin of a blissfully ignorant past self? Has he ever felt that desperate?

A hot wave of anxiety washes over her, then his words from last night seep into her mind: _You can't help what people think._ They bring a sudden, peculiar sense of relief.

Maybe he's right.

Some things you have no control over. Some things are to be endured.

And maybe that's okay.

For now...

_Just breathe._

* * *

It's a little after 8 o'clock when they arrive to the slightly run-down building of the Post Office. It's a survivor, too. It was re-purposed and filled with secrets while the outside world remained none the wiser.

Stepping out of the car, she looks around. Nothing appears to be out of the ordinary but she isn't even sure what ordinary looks like anymore. Cooper is going to be furious. Ressler and Meera will be quiet, their gaze wary and questioning. Aram will have a small, reassuring smile for her despite the circumstances. He always does and she always appreciates it.

Tom must be here already. He was scheduled to arrive 30 minutes ago, and the searing urge to get answers is rapidly drowning out everything else, making her restless. Red and Dembe are having a hushed conversation. It's all low drawl and tension. The bodyguard's eyes briefly meet hers, then he nods at whatever request his employer just made and climbs back behind the wheel.

Red pulls off his sunglasses and she can practically see him slip on a flippant persona like one would a light coat. Suddenly, anger swells inside her. When he smiles, she doesn't return it. "Shall we?" he says, gesturing to the stairs that lead up to the back entrance. She eyes him for a long moment, searching for the man who ate cheesecake at 4 in the morning. Who sat with her. Who confided in her. Who comforted her. She needs _him_, not this charade.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb."

Her clipped tone instantly shrinks his smile. He seems somewhat confused by the palpable change in her mood. "This is your plan, Lizzie," he says. "I'm just following it."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He hesitates. "Because you asked me to."

"So is this how it works now? You just grant all my wishes?"

"Within reason," he says. "_Mostly_ within reason," he corrects himself with a tilt of his head, chuckling. He seems to have many private jokes with himself. And there's that expression again - that pure fondness that pulls and puzzles her.

She studies him with another _why?_ on the tip of her tongue.

He studies her, too, with another smile shadowing his lips.

Sometimes there are no whys but right now she is in need of an explanation. "You said you love me."

He waits.

She waits.

He gives in - sort of. "What's the question, Lizzie?"

_Bastard._ "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"You don't have to say it back," he replies with a tight smile, trying to sound nonchalant, but she hears the tremor in his voice and sees his fingers twitch. He ends up patting his thigh. "Still, you could try believing it," he suggests, "but... I know you are fond of analyzing things."

"And you are fond of hiding them," she counters.

It elicits a small, bittersweet smile and she wonders for a brief second if he's as tired of hiding as she is of wondering. Perhaps he is. He did give himself up, after all.

Secrets grow heavy and tiresome, so perhaps he needs her questions as much as she needs his answers.

"See?" he says as if he could read her mind. "We do make a great team."

He means what he says, she's increasingly sure of that. What exactly he means by what he says is another matter altogether. She regards him, wanting and trying to believe him anyway. Her fingers are at her wrist again and he notices. He always does.

"Are you scared?"

She shoves her hands into her coat pockets and her eyes fix on the knot of his tie - it's much safer to study. "I am way too many things right now," she answers. It's the truth. She is a pulsing, cluttered mass of debris held in orbit by an inner void. That's what she feels in him, too, when it's just the two of them with no audience to perform for. Behind the sunglasses and under impeccable clothes, a vaguely familiar, fragmented chaos swirls. Maybe that's why she can't let go. And neither can he. Like a pair of black holes, they are spiraling together, locked in a destructive, seductive dance.

He leans closer, prompting her to peer up. "You did nothing wrong."

She holds his gaze for a long moment. "I shot my husband," she confesses quietly but out loud for the first time.

"He isn't your husb-"

"He _was_ my husband," she snaps at him. "And then he wasn't. I loved him, and then I shot him."

Tension ripples across his features but when he speaks, his voice is even. "It wasn't wrong," he insists.

"Which part? Loving him or shooting him?" she asks.

There's a pause. He seems hesitant, then: "Do you still love him?"

"Do you still love your wife?" she shoots back, her voice cracking with hurt and frustration. All of a sudden, the fact that he has a wife - the fact she's known ever since they first met - feels incredibly, unreasonably, ridiculously insulting.

His eyes narrow and he pushes back, ignoring her question: "Do you still love Tom?"

"No!" she says, eyes flashing with anger - anger for Tom, for herself, and for the man standing in front of her. It's a lot of rage for one syllable and the intensity gives her a pause. She averts her gaze and takes a deep breath, pulling herself together. But she can't just void years' worth of feelings like an incorrect check. "It's complicated. Part of me still hasn't quite caught up to...' she trails off, waving her scarred hand, '... to whatever the hell this is."

"It will," Red assures her. "Until then, keep it simple."

"Simple?"

"Kill whoever tries to kill you," he says. "Even if it's someone you think you know. They usually expect you to hesitate, so don't. _Never_ hesitate again, Lizzie."

"Tom did."

Red's jaw sets. He has nothing to add.

"Last night-"

"Was self-defense. Simple as that."

She sighs, her temper getting back under control. "Just don't vouch for me, please."

"As you wish," he says with a small nod.

Her eyes remain locked on him. "Why did you wait?" she asks.

He doesn't seem to understand the question.

"You knew who Tom was, yet for two years you stayed away."

He is silent for a long moment. "Tom is a link to somebody I've been trying to track down for a long time, and..."

"And allowing him to play house with me promised you more intel."

"Yes."

"What's changed?"

"My priorities."

"Lucky me," she remarks quietly with a hint of sad, tired sarcasm in her voice.

There's a flash of hurt but he remains silent, accepting her reproach. He isn't detached anymore. He is here now, clinging to her with grim determination, which is a seemingly inexhaustible source of both trouble and comfort.

She'd love to blame him for everything that's gone wrong in her life.

It would be easier that way.

And unfair.

He is infuriating.

Her attention shifts to something distant behind him and remains fixed there. Curious, he turns his head, following her gaze. It's a flock of pigeons high up above the graffiti-covered brick buildings. They are like blue and white pieces of confetti swirling against the dark backdrop of the overcast sky. Weightless. Silent. Unbound.

"Do you still have that private jet?" she asks.

He looks back at her. "You wanna flee, Lizzie?"

She doesn't answer. Her eyes briefly flicker back to the birds, then she turns and starts towards the stairs.

* * *

The old elevator's metallic humming eases their vague tension but Liz can't stand it anymore. "Any last words before they separate us?"

"You think they will?"

"I know they will."

He smiles, probably pleased that she's somewhat prepared, then seems to mull over her question. "Try not to stab anyone in the neck," he advises.

"Well, I can't make any promises."

He chuckles and she studies his profile.

The lines time and emotion have etched into his skin.

The tiny shadows his lashes cast.

The shape of his nose.

His lips.

Liar. Truth-teller. Traitor. Soldier. Monster. Partner. Perpetrator. Victim. He is conflict and contradiction; a kaleidoscope of labels; a hoarder of names which he sheds when they are of no use anymore. _No more restraints._ He defies defining. Laughs at the mere attempt, the pointlessness of it all. He won't be put in a box - not for long, anyway. _No more cages. _He moves freely. Exists on his own terms. Fluid, raw, focused and unapologetic. Her colleagues - like most people - mistrust and resent things they can't put in a box. It hinders understanding and thus, control. But she now knows that a certain kind of understanding can born of things unsaid, and something akin to trust can form even in the absence of factual certainty.

Theirs is a peculiar bond she cannot name or explain, only feel and allow to unfold.

She grants the opportunities.

She has control.

She has his wordlessness and his attention, and she's only beginning to grasp how empowering that is. They are undefined yet there's an unspoken understanding. A fragile intimacy with shifting boundaries that may just collapse and re-morph the second it is verbalized. With definition comes expectation. Limitation. A role to perform.

Undefinededness grants freedom. Relief. Room to breathe, to be.

It wasn't a wanted fugitive and an FBI agent who fell asleep on that couch.

His hand lightly brushes against hers and warm fingertips seek out her cold palm. The gap is filled in again with honest longing. _Everything's going to be okay_, the gesture promises. Probably not for a while but eventually. And right now she could settle for an eventually.

The elevator suddenly grinds to a halt and he reluctantly withdraws. It's time to play the assigned roles.

The heavy metal doors roll open, revealing a rather displeased-looking crowd on the other side. Agents Cooper and Ressler are waiting with at least ten heavily armed guards behind them.

She expected some backlash over her disappearance last night but this feels like overkill.

"Very impressive, Harold," Red remarks, looking more inconvenienced than surprised. "And completely unnecessary, as usual."

"I can explain everything, sir," Liz says.

"And you will. Both of you. In great detail," Cooper says, then nods to Ressler.

The younger agent produces a pair of handcuffs and looks at Red. "Turn around," he instructs him curtly and coldly.

Red doesn't obey.

"This really isn't necessary-" Liz tries but Ressler steps closer and she suddenly moves to block his way, effectively shielding the FBI's 4th most wanted. It's an unexpected, barely conscious act. She surprises everyone - including herself - but for now, she shrugs it off. "What's going on?" she asks, meeting Donald's eyes, hoping to gauge the situation, but Cooper's voice pulls her attention.

"Agent Keen. You are coming with me," the Assistant Director says.

"But sir—"

"Now! Or you'll get cuffs too."

Her mind is racing, trying to come up with a possible explanation. Maybe Tom isn't here after all. Maybe he never arrived. Maybe Red went ahead with his original plan. Maybe last night was just a clever stratagem. A game to amuse himself, to have her right where he wanted her: out of the way. Placated. Distracted. And she fell for it. She almost…

She looks at him sharply. Her gaze is filled with fresh doubt and suspicion. His is cool green and unflinching. W_hat have you done?_ But no answer is forthcoming.

Cooper's patience has run out. "Agent Keen. I'm not going to ask you again," he warns her.

And she wills herself to move. Red's eyes follow her but his view gets quickly and pointedly blocked by Ressler. The handcuffs jiggle sharply in his grasp. "Turn around," the younger man says. He's even more tense, his tone more hostile than usual.

Red tilts his head to take a peek at the guards who are still there and still heavily armed. His gaze slides past them and settles on Liz again. She is trailing behind Cooper with a straight back, clenched fists, and a hint of reluctance in her gait.

She feels an urge to glance back.

To make sure.

Of what, she doesn't exactly know. That he's okay? That he's not? That he's still there? That he's gone? That last night mattered? That it meant nothing?

Swept up in a tide of opposites, she turns her head and finds that she's still the focus of his gaze.

She hears Ressler warn him again but Red just keeps looking at her.

She hears guns being cocked. The tension is mounting but all she can do is stare back, hoping Red doesn't push these people to a breaking point.

His eyes suddenly leave her and he looks back at Ressler. "Oh well, if you insist," he says breezily, and with that, he finally turns around.

Ressler snaps on a cuff. It locks with cold, metallic clicks.

"I know it's an exercise in futility," Red remarks, smug but still placid and obedient, "but I'd like to point out that you're making a mistake."

"Really?" Ressler says, securing the other cuff. "I think I'm finally doing something that makes perfect sense," he adds, then grabs Red's shoulder and turns him back around.

"We live in chaotic times, Donald. You should be wary of things that make perfect sense."

* * *

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

**disclaimer**: not mine

**a/n #1**: the fic is still behind the show. Currently it's in a post-Milton Bobbit &amp; pre-Berlin "bubble". I still intend to follow milestone canon developments, but I'm taking alternate routes.  
**a/n #2**: thanks so much for the follows, favorites, and comments. I treasure them all, and one day I'll get back to each of you individually.  
**a/n #3**: enjoy!

* * *

She silently follows the Assistant Director up to his office.

The rhythmic thumping of shoes against steel abruptly stops, then the door closes behind her, amplifying the mute unease.

"Sit," Cooper says without making eye contact.

His desk is cluttered with various files and classified documents. They are marred by black stripes and red stamp marks.

Liz remains standing, clutching her coat, her eyes drinking in the sea of paper. Some look like medical charts but she can't make out whose name is on them.

Cooper settles into his chair and fixes her with a look.

Soon his voice jars her. She looks at him, confused and a little embarrassed. "Sir?"

"I said, 'Are you all right?'"

She stares at him, her bruised grip on the coat tightening. "Yes. I... I'm fine."

She still won't sit but Cooper doesn't ask her again.

He studies her like he studied her on the day the FBI's 4th most wanted showed up on their doorstep. This time, however, the narrow-eyed suspicion is somewhat softened by the productive months that came after the surprise surrender - by all the lives saved and criminals ticked off the list.

"What happened?" he inquires, the anger he displayed earlier seemingly gone.

She wonders if it's a trick, if he's only pretending. Or was he pretending before? Her gaze flickers to a preliminary police report lying open on his desk. _Don't you know already?_, the gesture implies.

He catches her glance. "I'd like to hear it from you."

"I shot someone." Vague but true. A careful approach. She learnt it from the best.

"Your husband," Cooper clarifies.

"I shot someone who pretended to be my husband," she corrects him.

The Assistant Director is silent for a long moment and she waits, readying herself. She knows exactly what his next word will be. "Reddington-"

"He tried to warn me. I refused to listen. The shooting had nothing to do with him."

Cooper furrows his brows. This readiness to defend Red - even when he isn't present - is officially a cause for concern. "Are you sure?"

She answers with silence.

"Because these days rarely anything happens around here that doesn't have his fingerprints on it."

"What are you implying, sir?"

"You two spend a lot of time together. By now you seem almost..." he trails off, searching for the least offensive word, "... comfortable with each other." When she doesn't protest his assessment, he adds, "Some might say a little too comfortable."

"My partnership with Reddington, however comfortable it may seem, had no bearing on my decision to shoot the person who was about to shoot me," she remarks, "_sir_."

"You're saying this was self-defense?"

"Yes," she replies. "But it wouldn't surprise me if Tom remembered things differently. Like he did the last time he was here."

For the longest moment, Cooper doesn't respond. He seems to be putting the pieces together. "So your previous suspicions were correct. The passports, the gun, the money - all his." She nods. "He worked with Zanetakos."

"Yes."

"And what was his interest in you?"

Her gaze briefly shifts to a folder with her name on it, then back to Cooper. "Same as yours, I suppose," she replies. "I'm a link to Reddington."

"So why attack you now?"

"I think he realized we were onto him," she answers, noting Cooper's silent reaction to the word _we_. "Maybe he panicked. Maybe it was his exit protocol. I don't know."

"You've been investigating him?"

"Yes. On my own time." Cooper keeps staring at her, waiting for a more elaborate answer. "I didn't want to involve anyone from the task force until I had something tangible."

"Did you involve Reddington?"

"Yes."

"In what capacity?"

"He assisted me."

"_Assisted_?"

"He helped with surveillance and information gathering."

Cooper reaches for a file, pulls out a photo and slides it in front of her. "Did he also help Craig Keen out a hotel room window?"

Liz stares at the picture - the dead body, the blood-soaked sidewalk. "This was a suicide."

"Would that be your professional opinion?" She glances up. Says nothing. "His hands were tied behind his back," Cooper comments.

Liz is silent for a while. She slowly picks up the photograph and studies it. "His real name was Christopher Maly," she says, then slides the photo back on the desk. "One of Tom's associates. And he decided to hurl himself out the window to avoid answering our questions."

Cooper raises eyebrows at that. "You were there?"

She doesn't answer. She may have told too much already.

Her boss grows silent, unsure what to make of the situation. He decides to shift the conversation. "And last night..." he says after a pause, "Why did you leave the scene last night?"

"I was scared," she admits, her voice cracking slightly. She clears her throat. "I didn't know if Tom had back-up. I didn't quite trust the police."

"I take it you didn't trust us, either."

A pained expression crosses her face. "I just... I didn't feel safe."

"But you trusted Reddington," Cooper says. "You felt safe with _him_."

She swallows. Hesitates. Then confesses. "There and then, yes."

Cooper gives her a small nod, not liking the admission but appreciating her candor. "So not anymore?" he prods.

She doesn't know how to even begin to answer that question.

"You were with him until this morning?"

"Yes. At a safe house not far from here."

"Did he leave at any point during that time?"

"No." Cooper doesn't look convinced. "He stayed with me. We..." she trails off. She should have stopped after that "no". _Keep it simple,_ she hears the gravelly voice echoing from a distant corner of her mind. She quickly silences it. She can't have him inside her head. Not now.

Cooper raises his eyebrows. "Yes...?"

"He didn't leave the house, sir."

"How can you be sure?"

The question - the assumption lingering behind it - ignites her anger but she is quick to rein it in. Her jaw sets, then: "I'm a light sleeper." _And we shared the couch - among other things.  
_

Cooper doesn't seem to appreciate the underlying tone of insolence. "Local PD is still very interested in pursuing this matter, as am I, Agent Keen. You have no immunity deal to hide behind, so I suggest you take this very seriously."

"I do, sir. That's why I'm here. That's why we need to talk to Tom."

Cooper inhales deeply and leans back in his chair. "That, I'm afraid, might prove slightly problematic."

* * *

Ressler opens the door to the interrogation room and motions with his head. "After you."

Slightly baffled, Red looks at him. "Is the cage being cleaned?"

"Move."

Red steps in.

"Sit down."

Red obeys - this time without commentary. Ressler leans down and unlocks one cuff, then pulls Red's arm up, securing the free cuff to the thick metal hook on the bolted down table. He pulls on it to make sure it's locked correctly, then nods to the guards.

The soldiers step out, closing the door and leaving the two men alone.

They are silent for a long moment, staring at each other, then Red leans back as far as the handcuffs allow him. His seemingly relaxed pose is in stark contrast with Ressler's rigid frame.

"You look stressed, Donald," he remarks. "Is everything all right?"

The younger man scoffs. "You think you're funny, don't you?" he says, rounding the table and taking a seat across from Red.

"You know, my uncle was a comedian of sorts," Red remarks and smiles fondly. "He was a wonderfully chaotic man. Unstillable. Always robed in thick cigar smoke. He had this ragged little touring theater group," Red remembers with a soft chuckle. "It didn't pay well and he spent most of his life on the road, but he had the most fascinating stories. He believed there was nothing more powerful than a tale well-told." Red drifts into silence and something dark shifts behind his green gaze. It's blinked away soon enough and the carefree tone returns. "Of course as a kid, I often found myself tempted to follow in his footsteps." And in a way, he did. In a way, his mother's older brother lives on, carefully woven into the intricate tale of the Concierge of Crime.

"You would have done the world a favor by picking a different career path, that's for sure."

"Well, sometimes the path gets picked for you," Red says, his smile fading again. "And you do your best navigating it."

"Is this your best, Reddington?" Ressler asks, fingers tapping on a closed folder in front of him.

But the question is brushed aside.

"Why am I cuffed to this table?"

Ressler doesn't answer. His hand remains resting on the thin folder, his eyes locked on the criminal in front of him, searching for an answer his dull and dry manila facts have apparently failed to provide.

"Or is it a secret?" Red teases but there's no trace of genuine humor in his tone.

The eye contact breaks and the folder is flipped open. "Where were you this morning between 6:30 and 7:30 a.m.?"

"Home," Red answers. "Well, _a_ home," he clarifies. "It's not mine."

"You were trespassing."

"House-sitting," Red corrects him. "For a friend."

"Can anybody verify that?"

The initial response is a slight, silent head tilt. _Are you serious?_

"Dembe," Red answers at last, wondering what exactly Donald hopes to accomplish with these questions. "And Agent Keen," he adds with a slight shift in his tone, watching the other man's reaction. "We were together but I'm guessing you already know that."

Ressler shoots him a look. "I know that she's been evasive. I know that last night she nearly killed her husband, and I know that soon after the two of you dropped off the radar."

"Just don't mistake knowing for understanding."

"Oh I think I understand more than you think."

"What are you insinuating, Agent Ressler?"

"Did you manipulate her into doing this?"

Red feels a stab of anger. His gaze grows hard and the cuff chains clink. "Do you still think so little of your partner?" The measured words resonate with icy reprehension.

Ressler hesitates. Considers the question. "Then tell me what happened."

"You will have to ask Agent Keen. I wasn't present at the... altercation."

"But you were there shortly after," Ressler says, briefly consulting the file in front of him.

The pathologically curious neighbors probably gave a fairly good description of him - good enough to be instantly recognizable by his former case agent.

"We agreed to meet but I got stuck in traffic," Red explains with some reluctance. "By the time I walked in, there was..." he trails off. Rolls his jaw.

There was a destroyed living room. Broken pieces of furniture. The sharp crunching of glass under wet shoes. Dark patches of blood. An oppressing stillness.

"Reddington...?"

He swallows. Swiftly recovers. His eyes re-focus on Ressler but he doesn't finish the sentence.

"There was what?"

"There was nothing to be done."

She was scratched up, wide-eyed and wired. She swung around, aiming her gun at him when he stepped into the cold room. For a split second, he was sure she'd pull the trigger. Her muscles were taut with fear and tension, but ever so slightly,the gun wavered and her grip loosened. His gaze swept her body from top to toe. _Are you hurt? _He never actually asked but she answered anyway - with a hollow _I'm fine_ \- and he had to fight back the urge to touch her. _Tom?_ She nodded and her gaze shifted. He followed it and saw a sticky trail leading to the back door - blood that wasn't hers. Not hers. That was all that mattered.

Wails of approaching sirens were drifting in through the front door he'd left open.

Knowing it was a mistake, he gently took her hand.

Knowing it was a mistake, she let him lead her out to the car.

There was a reaching out and a giving in. It was unclear who did which.

He can still hear the rubbery dance of the windshield wipers.  
Feel her shivers and her cold hand on his thigh.  
Smell the rain on the jacket he wrapped around her.  
Taste the residue of fear on his tongue.

She shrank back into the car seat, pulling herself into a tight knot.  
So impossibly small.  
A looming explosion.  
Unexpected and inevitable all at once.

"What was this 'meeting' about?" Ressler asks. "We don't have any active cases at the moment."

Red's lips twist but he doesn't answer. The two men sit in the sterile silence of the room.

The question is quickly re-phrased. "Was Tom supposed to be there?"

There's a long pause of deliberation followed by a short answer. "No."

"Why did you disappear?"

Red scoffs. "I didn't want to end up on some local cop's tally sheet, Donald. It would have reflected poorly on both of us."

"Why take Keen with you?"

"It wasn't safe for her there."

"And of course the safety of others is always your number one concern."

Red smiles a smile that dissolves as quickly as it appears. He intends to take his time with the response. He wants to browse among several neatly polished and safe versions in his head but his mouth moves before cold reason could freeze it shut.

And a simple truth tumbles out.

"Hers is."

He inhales slowly. His teeth silently abuse the inside of his cheek. He isn't quite himself today. Or maybe he's more himself now than he's ever been in the past two decades. Either way, it's disconcerting. His second skin, 20 odd years in the making, is peeling away in spots. She's brushed off chunks of cushy deceit and fake mirth and now he's here, feeling exposed yet pining for more.

He wonders if she knows, if she feels it too - that craving that clings to you like wet clothes, sending chills to your core. He wonders how she might react if one day he tremblingly stripped himself down to nothing but the truth - to all the flawed choices, disfiguring despair, and scar tissue?

Would she finally turn away in disgust?  
He would understand.

Or would she still want to curl up against that human wreckage? Would she still want to nestle into the sharp, quiet space and rest comfortably in his jagged embrace?  
He hopes so.

A wry smile curls his lips.

_Hope._

It's a foolish luxury he recently caught himself indulging in.

A perfect storm is gathering behind her eyes - a coiled strength unwinding, a deeper sense of self stirring from its lie-induced slumber -, and her touch leaves the most sublime destruction in its wake. Clocks corrode and old wounds ache in her presence, granting him a different sort of existence.

He was being modest when he said thieving wasn't his strongest suit. He is an expert but it's not money or precious stones or priceless works of art he's after.

No.

He steals moments.

He pilfers minutes of shared existence.

He buries them deep in his soul like a magpie building a home of shiny fragments.

But he's been getting greedier lately and she is quickly becoming his worst kept secret.

_And of course the safety of others is always your number one concern.  
Hers is._

His honesty is soft-spoken. Some might mistake it for a weak, desperate attempt at a lie. So he waits, wondering what was heard - if it was heard at all. Truth has always been his most precious commodity, and Agent Ressler one of his most clueless buyers.

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?"

Red shakes his head. It seems Agent Ressler hasn't changed much in this regard. He heard the words but failed to listen. On any other day Red wouldn't take offense but today is shaping up to be exceptional in more than one way.

The agent's ignorance is no longer a bliss for either of them.

"_Honestly_, Donald, I don't care what you believe. You've clearly made up your mind, so I suggest we dispense with this pointless charade."

"Oh no, we are not-"

"I am done talking to you," Red clarifies.

"Fine. I'll talk then. Tom Keen was already subjected to a thorough, in-house investigation, which concluded that he'd been set up. Your pal, Zamani, nearly gutted him a few months back. Liz shot him last night, then this morning somebody messed with his infusion pump during shift change at the hospital.

"I wasn't there."

"Maybe not. Maybe you sent someone else. Delegation seems to be your M.O. when dealing with this guy."

"Is that a fact?"

"You're the common denominator here, Reddington," Ressler persists, "and _that's_ exactly why you're cuffed to this table." Red eyes him but remains silent. "And if it were up to me, you'd never be allowed anywhere near Agent Keen again."

Red shifts slowly, eyes unblinking. The chair creaks and metal scrapes against metal. The stuffy air hums with tension. The younger man seems determined to get under his skin and now he feels compelled to reciprocate the gesture.

"What's bothering you, Donald?" he asks. "That she chose me or... that I chose _her_?" There's a pause, then, "Do you feel left out?"

"Liz did not choose you or any of this. She never got the chance," Ressler counters. "You waltzed in here with your cryptic demands and dragged her into this mess. _Your_ mess. You forced her into situations she was neither trained, nor prepared for. You clearly had it in for her husband from the get go and now you say you're just protecting her?"

"Sometimes the best way to protect someone is to teach them how to protect themselves," Red explains. "Unfortunately, there's only so much to learn in a secure underground cubicle."

"That's what last night was? Another lesson? Huh? Some sick test she had to pass?"

Red doesn't answer.

"Well, guess what," Ressler says, rising to his feet. He collects the folder, all his facts, ready to leave. "Her husband is still alive. You failed. _Again_."

Red smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the handcuff around his wrist, watching the light play on the metal surface.

"Maybe you're getting old."

"Maybe."

Ressler looks at him for a long, odd moment.

"Anything else you wanna get off your chest, Donald?" Red asks absently.

There's another long pause. A deliberation. "She could be facing charges."

Red's gaze shifts and locks on the FBI agent. _For what? Defending herself?_ he wants to say but he made a promise not to vouch for her. It would do more harm than good. Besides, he isn't sure what exactly her partner is trying to do here. Is he baiting him? Is he asking for help? Both?

Red opts for silence but he sees it. He sees the same thing his pursuer of five years sees clawing inside him: concern.

But knocking shatters their scrupulous silence.

Ressler tears his gaze away, crosses to the door and pulls it open.

"Doctor's here. They are all set," the guard informs him.

The agent nods, then steps back to the table to free Red's hand. "Let's go."

* * *

_tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

**disclaimer**: not mine

* * *

His cold fingers struggle to coax the shirt buttons into their holes. He straightens his back and tilts his head, frowning as his vertebrae pop and crack. His neck muscles are still numb from the local anesthetic.

And it seems his tie has gone missing.

The lock clicks. Clothing rustles as someone quickly, quietly slips into the room - clearly someone who doesn't wanna be seen entering. An intense feeling reaches him. A warm surge of anticipation. His hands still but he doesn't turn around.

The door closes with a soft click. That someone is watching now. Assessing.

He inhales deeply, then finally moves to face his visitor. "You shouldn't be here," he remarks, buttoning another button. "Tongues will wag," he adds with a twitch of a smile and something else - something weary and heavy and forlorn that lives behind the jovial shell.

Liz keeps looking at him, her face expressionless, and he slowly lowers his arms, offering himself up for a better view.

He looks ghostly standing there, soaked in cold-white fluorescent lights.

Focused.  
Intense.

Deceptively vulnerable in a sort of boyish disarray.

And she takes her time, takes him in, re-acquainting herself with his presence and all its consequences.

Her gaze drifts up from his shoeless feet to the loose-hanging belt buckle to his half-unbuttoned shirt to the adhesive bandage on his neck.

"Does it hurt?" she asks, her voice gentle yet still cutting after so much static silence.

He regards her, pondering the possible ramifications of her chat with the Assistant Director. "No." She looks neither pleased nor disappointed. "How did your meeting with Harold go?"

"Did you try to have Tom killed this morning?"

Apparently, it went as expected.

When he doesn't immediately respond, she steps closer.

It affects him instantly.

"Did you try to have Tom killed this morning?" Liz repeats the question.

He watches her lips close around the firm words and stretches the silence, shamelessly enjoying the pleasant sensation of her closeness. "I didn't."

She eyes him. "They are going through the security footage. There was a man in Tom's room minutes before Ressler arrived. His face is in frame only for a few seconds but I recognized him. He was in the extraction team Mr. Kaplan mobilized after Garrick took you."

He smiles, pleased. "Impressive, Lizzie." He moves, slowly chipping away at the humming space between them. He's trying to turn her tactic against her - that's what he tells himself. Truth is, he, too, forgot how to keep a safe distance. "Have you shared this with the rest of the group?"

The lack of response is telling, making his grin grow.

"Why was he there?" she asks, voice low but even.

Something has opened up between them last night and it cannot be closed back up. They keep slipping back into it with unsettling ease, testing and teasing and poking and prodding.

Manipulating, even.

He tilts his head. It still feels like the left side of his neck is missing. It's a peculiar incompletion but its edges are now embroidered with a faint, dull ache - a good kind of pain, heralding an eventual return to normalcy.

Her eyes drift to the bandage, to the red spot of soaked-through blood, to the messy-yellow residue of iodine, then back to the deep green of his gaze. Up close he's all warmth, skin, and color - so overwhelmingly alive and real. She doesn't mean to stare but she does and he doesn't mind. He holds her gaze, wondering how much she sees.

She will strip him of his armors soon enough and, if she allows, he will help tear down every lie and liar holding her captive.

They will make them kneel.

And then he will kneel with them.

"I sent him to make sure Tom didn't get dispatched prematurely."

"He took out his protective detail."

The statement earns her a small chuckle. "They weren't protecting him, Lizzie. They were dutifully guarding a door with their backs turned, in typical FBI fashion, while Tom was quietly bleeding out on the other side."

"Your guy messed with the IV line."

"Yes. If he hadn't, our best lead would be dead by now due to a massive Heparin overdose. Check with the hospital. I'm sure they've already complied a preliminary report."

"I can't. Cooper had to put me on leave, pending an incident review."

Red's eyes narrow. "Had to?"

"It's politics," she says but doesn't believe it. "They're bringing in a liaison from the local police. I need to give a statement and my psych eval is in 30 minutes."

The soft teasing fades. "What do they have?"

She shakes her head, helpless for a moment. "I don't know."

"You really shouldn't be here."

"Yeah," she says with a sigh. "Yeah, I should be busy being a mom. Ressler and Audrey should be married. You should be a highly decorated admiral. And yet... here we are."

"And I am to blame for all that loss."

"The government may have granted you immunity but you are a long way from absolution."

"You think that's what I want... Agent Keen?" he asks, his quick smile abrasive, his tone challenging. "_Absolution_?" he repeats, tasting the word of her choosing.

"Maybe you don't know what you really want anymore."

Her words land with impact. His smile fades but he doesn't say anything.

"I had to make sure," she says.

He raises an eyebrow.

"That you are telling me the truth about what happened," Liz clarifies. "That's why I'm here."

He regards her. "And? Are you satisfied?"

"For now."

He nods and then there's a trace of a grin as the realization arrives. "You already checked with the hospital."

She looks at him for a long moment and her features soften somewhat. "You could have just told me, you know. Before we came in. Before the accusations started flying."

His gaze shifts for a second. There's a pain flaring up. Not in his neck. Behind his sternum. A growing pain. He blinks, his mouth twists but no words come out.

"You don't trust me," Liz summarizes his reaction.

He squints. The mood shifts and the playfulness returns."I _trust_ you will arrive to the right conclusions," he says, "_eventually_." He needs her to hear the accusations as well - both the deserved and the baseless. They provide options she can choose from. And he needs her to choose, to decide for herself.

He wants to be a choice.  
Hers.

"I don't have time to play your games, Red." She sounds tired. "This job is the only thing left that makes sense to me right now. If I lose it..."

"You won't."

She isn't so sure.

Her cell phone starts buzzing. She fishes it out of her pocket, checks the caller ID, then taps _ignore_. "I have to go."

He gives her a small nod.

She doesn't move. "Are they letting you go?"

"Yes," he says as if the FBI had any real say in where he goes and what he does.

It's her turn to nod.

"But you know how to reach me."

"Actually, now I know exactly where to find you," she says, gesturing to the chip freshly embedded in his neck. "Aram created an app, so now I can track you on my phone."

"An _app_?" he echoes, brows pulled together, and he looks at the phone with a mixture of aversion and curiosity. "How thoughtful."

For a brief moment she forgets.

She forgets all the bad. Their dark weight slips off and she smiles.

And in the eternity of that same moment, he feels a sudden, peculiar urge to taste that fragile curve of amusement.

"Do you trust me, Lizzie?"

The curve collapses into a thin line. "In the past 10 minutes I disobeyed a direct order, lied, and broke a dozen regulations just to figure out if you were honest about _one thing_ you told me last night. Wh-"

"No," he firmly interrupts. She didn't hear him. She misunderstood. "_Do you trust me_?" he repeats the question. The same four words are flung at her but this time they don't sound quite the same. They reach her at a different angle and the answer doesn't present itself quite as clearly or vehemently.

There's another long pause. Reason struggles with some unknown intuition and the anger leaves her. She didn't have to figure out if he was telling the truth. She had to confirm her gut feeling that he was. Does that constitute some sort of trust?

"I want to," she admits, quiet and honest, "but I think there's a language barrier."

"We don't speak the same language?"

"We don't seem to attach the same meaning to certain words."

"Such as?"

"'Fun'," she quickly offers the most innocent example, eliciting a small grin.

But he doesn't allow it to last. He never does. The lightness of the moment quickly deteriorates. "'Love'?" he offers the most dangerous of all, watching her reaction.

The word hangs in the air between them, loaded and heavy and ticking, and she doesn't quite understand why he fixates on it. Such a crude, transparent method of manipulation feels beneath them. Maybe he can't help it. Maybe he can't help feeling it. Maybe he feels as confused as she does. Maybe this is a clumsy grab for understanding and being understood; an attempt to climb over that barrier and meet somewhere in between words and meanings.

They are drowning in maybes.

"I've never been loved this way," she tries to explain. To him. To herself. Especially to herself.

Her phone buzzes to life again but they keep looking at each other.

Something inside him rips itself loose and words start leaking again. "Have you ever been to Chefchaouen?"

She feels another rush of confusion and hears herself answer: "No."

A fond smile shadows his face. "Remarkable city. Swirling. Calming. Intoxicating." He inhales a lungful of memories. "It smells of freshly baked bread, spices, and mint tea, and the buildings of the Old Town..." A soft, deep hum escapes him. It resonates in her ribcage. "They are painted in the most brilliant shades of blue."

Her eyes search his. Brilliant blues clash with starving greens in the gray stillness of the room.

"Do you wanna flee, Red?" she asks, echoing him from earlier.

He doesn't answer.

Thumping of boots and radio static draw their attention towards the door. Guards walk down the corridor outside. Fortunately, they don't stop and the intruding noise soon fades.

When she looks at him again, she finds his gaze already back on her.

"Don't go back to your house. It's not safe."

"I know."

He nods, then: "Stay with me tonight."

The sentence slaps and stuns her.

_Are you out of your goddamn mind!? _would be a proper reaction. Anger, too. A lot.

But that's not what comes out.

Nothing comes out.

_He is toying with you._

But he doesn't look smug or amused. If anything, he seems to be in some sort of strange, uncontrollable pain. His eyes are pleading.

And her phone keeps buzzing.

He's being selfish and greedy and scared and he can't seem to stop himself. "Your colleagues are treating you as a suspect. If you go to a friend, you'll put their lives in danger. And the thought of you alone in some cheap mo-"

"Stop." It's a whisper. An order, not a plea. And he stops. The rationalization ceases. He obeys.

The phone's buzzing dies down too.

Only to start back up again. She pulls it out and they both glance at the screen: it's Ressler.

She taps _ignore_ again and wishes it were that simple with Red too. She wishes his abrupt lunacy didn't make so much sense to her so often. "I have to go."

This time she moves.

More words rush up and collide against his teeth.

He forcibly swallows them.

Too many have escaped already.

* * *

_tbc_


	8. Chapter 8

**disclaimer**: not mine

* * *

Red's gaze scours the busy war room. He is being stared at by some and ignored by others but he's bothered by neither the curious, nor the oblivious. No. He is searching for something specific, and soon his attention comes to rest on the window of Agent Cooper's upstairs office. Ressler's up there, too, with a third agent. When the man turns, Red's eyes narrow with recognition.

Special Agent Walter Gary Martin.  
One of Fitch's many puppets.  
And he doesn't look pleased.

"What do you mean you let him go?" Agent Martin asks, incredulous.

"Holding him for any longer would have been a violation of our agreement," Cooper explains.

A dismissive snort is the only immediate response he receives.

"He's been re-fitted with a DARPA tag," Ressler adds. "We'll be tracking his every move."

"You can't be so naive as to think that will keep him in line - or even from disappearing," Martin counters.

"No," Cooper says, sharing a look with Ressler. "The tag won't."

"Am I missing something here?" Martin asks, shifting his attention between the two agents.

"Agent Keen," Cooper offers.

"Oh, yes. _Agent Keen_," Martin says, sitting down. He motions to a small stack of files on the desk. "Her screw-up is already making waves. The media is spinning it as the Bureau's latest failure to control its agents. Given the current climate, it's a little too effective for comfort." He pointedly looks at Cooper. "So any kind of leniency is strictly off the table."

"She came in this morning voluntarily," Ressler comments.

"With Reddington in tow," Cooper adds.

"Well, that's really very sweet but the fact remains: this mess needs to be contained. The longer it goes on, the more people start asking questions and the bigger our risk of exposure. No agent is worth absorbing that risk, especially not one endorsed by a known traitor."

"What are you saying?" Cooper asks.

"We're gonna expedite the process."

"You wanna throw her under the bus?" Ressler asks, his tone accusing.

"_I_ don't want to," Martin answers. The "but I am going to" part goes without saying._  
_

"Then this task force is finished," Cooper says and Martin throws him a silent look. "Or is that the goal here?"

"Don't act like this is a surprise, Cooper. You've always lived on borrowed time."

There's a pause. A bit of truth sinking in. Then Ressler speaks: "We don't even know what really happened last night. Her husband could b-"

"We know that no other weapon was found at the scene," Martin interrupts. "We know the bullets they pulled from the husband trace back to her gun. We know she left the scene with another man whose description matches that of our 4th most wanted fugitive. And _we_ know," he says, glancing at Cooper, "that it was, in fact, our 4th most wanted fugitive."

There's another long pause and no objections.

"We know enough," Martin adds, looking back at Ressler.

"Yes but Reddington-"

"Reddington's a ghost. And he sure as hell cannot provide an alibi or testify in court. This little charade of his has gone on long enough."

Ressler glances at Cooper, then back at Martin. "Yes, but we still don't understand-"

"We don't need to understand. We just need to make this to go away, and the fastest way to do that is by giving people what they want."

"A scapegoat," Cooper remarks.

Red's gaze shifts away from the office upstairs and lands on the young technician who's typing on a keyboard, busy and blissfully unaware of any criminal presence.

"Hello, Aram."

Aram flinches. His fingers slide off the keys as he turns in the direction of the familiar voice. "Mr. Reddington."

Red bends forward and squints at the screen. "Working on another _app_?" he inquires with a casual air of menace.

Aram swallows hard and his gaze flickers to the bandage on Red's neck. "I um..." With a gentle sweep of a fingertip, the screen goes black. "I-If you're looking for Agent Keen-"

"I am not."

The young man gives a hesitant nod and the conversation halts for an uncomfortable moment.

Red studies the desk and squints at a mug that reads: _sassy, classy &amp; a bit smart assy_. "Do you like coffee?" he asks.

"M-me? Um... y-yes. Yes, I do."

"There's a wonderful little coffee shop just around the corner," Red informs him and his friendly demeanor unsettles Aram even more.

"Oh, I-I didn't know that."

"I'm heading there right now."

Aram nods with a strained smile.

"Would you like to join me?"

"You... you want to take me out for a cup of coffee?"

"Yes. Why not?" Red says as if the offer was the most natural thing in the world.

"That's-that's very kind, but I'm-I'm kinda in the middle of something."

Red's attention shifts up to the office window, then back to the young man. Time is running out. "We all are, Aram."

Aram glances up too. "Agent Martin," he says, his gaze now on Red. "He's not here to help L-" he abruptly swallows the rest of her given name, then swiftly corrects himself: "Agent Keen, is he?"

"No, he's not," Red confirms.

There's a nod. And suspicion. "Are you, Mr. Reddington?"

He doesn't answer.

Aram holds his gaze. There's something unbreakable hiding underneath all that fear, and Red lets the young man take these tremblingly brave seconds to reach a decision on his own.

Aram steals another glance upstairs, then locks eyes with Red. The decision is made and it comes with a complimentary divulgence of information: "They are tracking her, too. Her new cell phone."

Red's gaze hardens.

"I spoofed the signal," Aram adds quickly and he can feel the tension dissipate. "They didn't see her... with-with you in there."

Red flashes a small grin of feigned ignorance. "In where?"

Aram only hesitates for a second. "Nowhere."

* * *

Her index finger hovers over the dial pad.  
Warm hesitation mixes with cold air as the dial tone drones on.

The receiver is slowly placed back, then forcefully yanked off the hook again, and a string of numbers is punched in in quick, almost angry succession.

It's ringing.

_One._

A deep inhale.

_Two._

A misty-white exhale.

_Three._

She glances around.

_Four._

This is probably a bad idea.

_Fi-_

The ringing abruptly stops but nothing follows. She listens to the fuzzy void on the other end.

It's him.

She hears a faint rustle.

He fidgets.

It spreads an even fainter, unconscious smile over her chapped lips.

"It's 2 in the morning and 40 degrees outside," he informs her with a strange note in his tone. It's either drowsiness or expensive scotch.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Yes."

"Are you drunk?"

No answer.

She tries again - a bit uneasy. "I just..." but she trails off, unsure.

"You are not at the motel."

"I needed to clear my head."

"Where are you, Lizzie?"  
A volume of concern.

"I thought you had me followed."

There's a pause, then: "They lost you 30 minutes ago at the corner of 13th and Shepherd."

She kicks the question back to him. "Where are _you_?"

"I thought you had an _app_," he replies, rolling the tracking chip between his thumb and index finger.

He should have given it to Dembe. They should have relocated to a new place already. Yet he is sitting on the same couch in the same house he shared with her yesterday.

He is lingering.  
Waiting.

Hoping.

It's dangerous.  
Borderline sadistic.

"It becomes pretty useless if you dig out the tag."

He lets out a soft chuckle.  
It ends too soon. "How was it?" he inquires. "The _evaluation_?"

Only he can make disdain drip from a word like that.

"I survived," she says. "They let me go. For now, anyway." She pictures him giving a curt, pursed-lipped nod. "But it's best if we don't see each other until this is over."

His fingers close tightly around the small chip, and a sharp edge bites into his skin. "Yes."

It's a winced yes. And quick. Too quick. Too agreeable.

"I mean it, Red," she insists. "You need to stay away."

A counter offer: "I'll stay away if that's what you want."

Then a clumsy confession of sorts: "It's not wh... This isn't about what I want."

He hesitates for a short moment. "Is this about what Agent Martin wants?"

Her temple comes to rest against the top of the booth. "Agent Martin wanted me to reach out to you and set up a meet," she says. She is betraying. She is protecting. Her hands are so cold. "Just stay away," she repeats firmly. "Please."

She already has plenty to worry about.

_Please_. His eyes close and his jaw clenches. It's always the small things. Paper cuts of emotion. They are the most painful. Like that soft syllable of care so badly craved but never fully merited.

"I will find a way to be useful from a distance, then," he says.

"I'm sure you will."

There's a moment of waiting - a confusion of feelings mixed with burning alcohol and cold night air.

"There's no case against you," he says, "at least not until Tom wakes up." Aram was more than useful and fully complicit in digging up sensitive details of the investigation. And the coffee was excellent, too.

But she doesn't ask how he knows. Her mind is occupied with something else. _Someone_ else. "Do you think he planned this?" Tom did hesitate and she shot him. Or did he let her? Did he want her to? He created a situation where a gun and a handful of bullets remained her only way out. "To gain leverage, something to trade?"

_Something to further entrap and manipulate you with. _The other end of the line is silent for a while but then: "I'll be sure to ask him when I visit."

"Red-"

"You should head back," he interrupts. "Before you freeze to death."

"You can't kill him," she reminds him. He can't. Not when she has so many questions gnawing at her.

Anger and frustration ignite some of the scotch pooling inside him.

_I can.  
I want to.  
Tell me.  
Let me._

But no such request is forthcoming. No changing of mind. The order remains and it's coated in her voice - stubborn and beautiful.

He rolls his jaw, shakes his head. "As you wish," he says with forced ease, trying for a light shift in the conversation, but the words come out seared and deformed. "I'm sorry," he adds after a long pause.

"For what?" she asks with a soft sniffle. It's the cold.

A sad half-grin twists his mouth. _For what? Oh my dear Lizzie. _That's another long list. Maybe the longest, and despite his best intentions - or perhaps because of them - it only seems to be getting longer. _Everything. _But one step at a time: "The motel was the smart choice," he squeezes out. It is true and he hates it.

She knows. "It's really not that bad, you know."

"It's depressing. Smothering - even with those mirrors."

The mood shifts.

"You know what _I_ find smothering? Being stalked 24/7." Her voice is low and cold now, and he almost says it, almost defends himself: _I don't enjoy it, either. It's not fun, it's not right, it's just... necessary._ But the flimsy justification dies in his throat. He is going to keep her safe, no matter the cost. He's going to keep her alive even if resentment is the only 'thank you' he'll ever receive. After all, one has to be alive to resent.

He tilts back his head, eyes drifting shut, fingers curling into a fist around the tracking chip.  
Tired. He is so tired.

She listens.  
There's a deep intake of breath followed by a slow, even exhale.

He listens.  
There's a siren wailing faintly in the distance.

There always seems to be a siren wailing in the background of this circular tale of longing and clutching and letting go.

"Your phone-"

"I know," she assures him, her voice softer now.

Neither is willing to hang up.  
Both are grasping for things to say.  
She is shivering and he is burning up.

"Tell me," she prompts.

"Tell you what?" he asks, eyes still closed. His thumb slides back and forth along the edge of the phone, as if caressing it.

She picks at a faded, peeling sticker. "That there's a point to this..." she trails off, slowly smoothes the sticker back. "... mess."

His eyes drag themselves open, his mouth twitches and he grips the phone a little tighter. There was a point once. A clear path and a ruthless plan. But plans change. Fires are set. Priorities shift. Emotion bleeds into strategy.

And you end up on a different path.  
Your steps unchoreographed.  
Your destination fuzzier.

Seductive, even.

It's a dizzying ballet of rage and desire, fear and love, relentlessly keeping everyone on their toes at all times.

_Maybe you don't know what you really want anymore._

He hears her sigh.

He stares at the ceiling. He didn't notice the cracks before. All his attention was focused on her. Sleeping. Warm. Soft. Only his to hold, to admire, to breathe in just for an hour or two. A privilege.

Her voice pulls him back to the present. "You know, one of these days we'll have to have a frank discussion."

"Our discussions are always frank," he counters, the teasing is once again evident in his tone, and his eyes shift to the folder on the coffee table.

"Frank but incomplete," she remarks.

He is quick to use the opportunity. "Agent Martin will not make a move without sufficient fabricated evidence. But you probably realized that the moment they let you go."

"So?"

"So why did you really call, Lizzie? It wasn't just to warn me."

Hesitation is her first answer. Then,

"I had a nightmare," she confesses abruptly. "The same I used to have as a child. The one I told you about. Remember?"

Her clumsy frankness is followed by a silent twitch of emotion.

This is unexpected.

He can barely make his lips move. "Yes." Fear rises inside him but he swallows it back. And waits. Listens.

"But this time it had a new detail."

He doesn't ask what.  
He doesn't have to.

"You were there..." she volunteers the information, "... burning."

He winces, head bowing and teeth baring for only a split second as a hot jolt scrapes across his skin - a memory flaring up. Then comes a complete, breathless stillness. Sometimes he dreams of those flames, too. Flames that ate flesh and kept secrets. Flames that unmade him into something not quite human - something dark, lonely, and selfish that could thrive among people-shaped monsters.

Flames that screamed and marred and devoured.  
A fire that ended several lives and welded two.

She doesn't say more. He feels he has to. "I'm fine, Lizzie." It's not a lie, he tells himself. Physically, he's fine. The wounds have turned into scars, the screams into mere echoes, and that night into a bad dream.

"Yeah, I know," she says quickly with a clear affliction of smiled embarrassment. "I know," she repeats more solemnly.

Just a bad dream.

A bad dream.

"What you're going through now, it's..." his voice fades into another wince, and his jaw moves mutely in search of the right words but there aren't many of those left, "... it's a very difficult adjustment."

"And you won't feel like yourself for a while," he adds. "Sometimes you won't be able to see even one step ahead, and there will be moments, days even, when you get... scared..."

"... when you think the only way out is going back."

Her mouth curves and unshed tears sting her eyes.

"But you can't." His throat tightens. "You can't go back."

Going backward is dying.  
Moving forward is surviving.

_You're like me. You survive._

"What would I go back to?"

An apartment filled with splintered memories of a fake life.  
Her years with Sam packed up in two yellowed boxes.  
Some charred relics of a redacted childhood.  
One dog.

The full inventory of a painfully incomplete, shredded existence.

But he worries.

Because Tom lingers and Tom is a hidden item on _her_ list - an item that's no longer his to remove.  
Tom is her moving backward.

She sniffles and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, pulling herself together.

He gets up from the couch and steps to the window. The capital stares back at him from outside - a muted patchwork of light and dark.

"Tell me where you are. Let me send someone to pick you up."

She clears her throat. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Wandering alone at night is not a good idea."

"I have a gun."

He opens his mouth but the words get stuck. He hesitates, his teeth worrying his lower lip. Then it just slips out:

"You have me, too."

That's the current inventory of their relationship:

She has him.  
He owes her.

So much.

* * *

_tbc_


	9. Chapter 9

**disclaimer**: not mine

* * *

Amidst the soothing swirl of indistinct chattering and clinking of various utensils, the maitre d' approaches a table, then leans down to discreetly whisper something to one of the guests: Assistant Director of National Intelligence, Alan Fitch.

The message has a visible effect on him.

His eyes instantly start scanning the room - searching, not finding. He whispers something back to the maitre d'. The answer is a single nod followed by a subtle gesture toward the entrance. With a smiled apology, Fitch excuses himself from the table, then raises to his feet to head out.

The elegant downtown restaurant is buzzing, but when he turns the corner, Fitch finds the corridor leading to the restrooms completely and unnaturally deserted.

Apart from one man: Dembe.

The bodyguard pushes a door open and holds it for Fitch - a wordless but unmistakable invitation the older man appears reluctant to accept.

After some hesitation, however, he walks in and finds the FBI's 4th most wanted leaning casually against the countertop, dabbing his hands dry with a paper towel.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"There's no need to be so hostile, Alan. I came to offer my assistance."

"In the men's room?"

Red glances up. "We've conducted business under much less sanitary circumstances," he remarks, then tosses the wet, crumpled ball of paper into the trash. "Besides, the matter is rather time sensitive and I doubt your distinguished guests out there would have approved of my company."

Fitch remains silent. "Oh, how's Bill, by the way?" Red asks with a burst of enthusiasm. "He still snores through those morning briefs? I assume he does otherwise you wouldn't be in such an embarrassing jam."

"What are you talking about?"

"A little bird told me you've lost an operative to one highly ambitious warlord who controls a splinter group of the former Mahdi Army." Fitch neither confirms nor denies. "You won't get to her in time. _I_, however, can return her to you by the end of the week."

"I suspect it's not the spirit of patriotism that's moved you to offer a helping hand."

Red pushes himself away from the countertop and steps closer. "I want you to call off the witch hunt against Elizabeth Keen."

Fitch searches his face, then his demeanor swiftly changes. "I can't," he says. "And I wouldn't, even if I could."

"If this is another misguided attempt at warning-"

"We are past warnings now, Ray," Fitch interrupts. "Your task force have been bad to business. You've made a lot of very important people very uncomfortable."

"If your friends keep pushing this, they will be a lot more than just uncomfortable, and that's a promise, Alan."

"They are only aiming at where you're pointing."

"We had a deal."

"That little insurance policy doesn't extend to her. As things stand, it barely even covers you, so don't test us."

Red is silent for a long moment, then once again his demeanor shifts abruptly.

"_Cher Ami._"

Confused, Fitch raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"The famous homing pigeon. In 1918 she saved the 77th Infantry Division from the Germans and also from the allies who opened fire on them by an unfortunate mistake. She was shot through her breast, even lost an eye, but she delivered her message, saved almost 200 lives, and made it back to her loft. Remarkable, isn't it?"

"Yes. Indeed. But I fail to see the relevance."

"I _know_ what your little messenger was carrying across the Diyala province when she was shot down, Alan. And it's only a matter of time before those militiamen realize it, too. So if you want her to return to the loft, I suggest you accept my help."

"It's not my decision."

"You have influence."

"If you care about Elizabeth, you let this investigation run its course. No one will be harmed, _you have my word_. But if you insist on interfering..." Fitch trails off and when Red shows no sign of changing his mind, he lets out a sigh. "You may have your way this time, but you will turn them all into targets."

"They are already being targeted," Red remarks. "My offer expires in 24 hours." He grabs his fedora off the counter. "Please give my best to Margaret," he says, donning the hat, then walks past Fitch, leaving the Assistant Director staring at the reflection of Red's retreating form in the frameless wall-to-wall mirror.

* * *

The mathematics of the following day are simple but all the more painful to endure.

22 of the 24 hours have passed.

5 new possible safe houses were considered and 1 was picked.  
2 business deals were closed successfully. 1 ended with 3 dead bodies (now dissolved) and 1 cracked rib (still throbbing).  
1 young woman was thought of. Frequently.

3 phone calls were contemplated.  
1 was barely resisted.  
0 was placed.

Another is being awaited still. The burner cell lies flat on a sturdy table - still, mute, black, and occasionally glanced at.

Dembe steps into the living room of their latest hideout that is stuck in the primary stages of renovation. He finds Red sitting amidst memories, dust, and sheets, gazing out the double French doors that open to an overgrown back yard with an empty pool. There's a book in his lap and his thumb is absently caressing a momentarily forgotten page.

He seems more at peace here than at most places. When he saw the house, he no longer wanted to look at the rest. _Perfect_, he said. He was smiling at something Dembe did not quite understand.

Last night he fell asleep cradling an ice pack and inhaling lungfulls of pain.

He woke shivering and more tired than before.

"Raymond."

The name elicits no response, so it gets repeated. Its owner turns his head, shifting his leaden gaze toward the source of the familiar, deep voice.

"Is everything ready?"

There's a short pause before the answer: a simple, solemn nod.

Red closes the book and rises to his feet with a winced grunt.

"I don't think this is a good idea."

"It's just a bruised rib, Dembe. I'll live," he says, grabbing the phone.

"I'm not talking about that."

Red stares at him for a long moment, then hands him the burner and shakes off the comment. "Contact Mr. Kaplan. We only have a short window."

The phone suddenly goes off and Dembe gives it back.

Red flips it open and Fitch's voice comes pouring though the device:

_It's done._

Red's shoulders slump and he lets out a small sigh of relief.

_But they are gonna need a confession from the husband._

"I'll take care of it."

_Now we need that package delivered._

"You know I keep my promises, Alan."

There's a short pause followed by a soft click of a line being disconnected.

* * *

A syringe is inserted into an IV line. Its transparent contents empty mutely into the narrow tube.  
The procedure comes with the gravelly warning of a trusted ally: "This won't be pretty."

Red nods his understanding to Mr. Kaplan, then his attention switches back to their still unconscious test subject. The heart rate monitor's steady beeping quickens as he comes to, and it quickens even more when he is greeted:

"Hello, Tom."

Weak, nauseous, and scared, Tom reflexively starts feeling around under his pillow.

"Looking for this?" Red asks, holding up the nurse call button at the foot of the bed. Seeing it, the searching hand freezes into a fist clutching the bedsheet. Stuck in a hazy limbo between flight and fight, Tom's eyes dart around the room. There's a guard lying nearby on the floor. No blood. That's all that registers before the stern command: "Look at me." His gaze snaps back to Red.

"Mr. Kaplan has given you a little wake up cocktail. We have some very important decisions to make tonight, and I want you focused and clear-headed." Red steps closer and briefly studies the label on the IV bag. "Ritalin is highly effective on anesthetized rats, so you should regain full alertness in about..." he trails off to check his watch,"... a minute or so. Then we'll talk."

"I have nothing to say to _you_," Tom rasps, holding the older man's steady gaze. "Where is _Lizzie_?" he asks. It's a testing jab and he, too, is clearly looking for a reaction. It manifests immediately.

Rage.

It's radiating off Red in waves. "I'm told there might be some side effects," he remarks, taking in Tom's pale complexion.

"I will talk," Tom says, "but only to _her_." He is mocking and threatening.

"Hypertension. Some nausea, perhaps?" Red asks, eyes narrowed with mock-concern.

"Not from the drug," Tom says, defiantly swallowing back the bitterness clawing its way up in his throat.

Red lets out a chuckle but his icy mirth quickly dissolves as he tilts his head to fix Tom with an unsettling look.

"She must have a lot of questions," Tom muses in a broken tone. "Just dying to... to _know_."

"What do you know, Tom?"

"I know you're not gonna kill me. I knew that after Zamani."

There's no response.

"You don't wanna risk it, right? Taking more. Not after what happened to poor old Sam."

Mr. Kaplan shoots a concerned look at her employer. She watches his fingers curl into fists.

"Does she know about Sam?" Silence. "Or us? Berlin?" A smirk. "Oh but that's one hell of a story. You might collect a bullet for it, too."

A smile is the only reaction this elicits.

Then Tom suddenly lurches forward and grabs the edge of the bed. Amidst heaving and coughing, he empties the contents of his stomach on the floor. His wake-up cocktail is kicking in.

"This is gonna be more fun than I anticipated," Red remarks with a quick grin and pulls up a chair.

* * *

Sounds of laughter are drifting towards Liz as she follows Dembe down a corridor, and they hit her ears with piercing clarity as the door is pulled open. There is a merry company of three inside: Red and a couple around his age Liz doesn't recognize.

"So there she was, naked as a jaybird and..." Red's voice quickly fades as he sees her, and his guests turn to inspect what's halting the unmistakably entertaining story.

There's a brief conversation of glances. Red looks sharply at Dembe who stares at him unapologetically, then back to Liz.

She takes note of his bruises before anything else. Is this why Dembe told her she should come over?

And Red is standing now, still staring.  
He clearly didn't expect her to make an appearance tonight.

"I got your message," she says. She doesn't know why it's the first thing that tumbles from her mouth. A simple _hello _would have been... well, better. Her voice is not as strong as she'd like. _I got your message._ It sounds increasingly idiotic as it keeps echoing in her skull. She was desperate to break the silence but now it's worse.

Thankfully someone comes to the rescue. "Well, who is your lovely friend, Raymond?" the woman asks. It sounds less like a sarcastic bite at Liz's current lack of social grace and more of an attempt to cushion her abrupt entrance.

"After 20 years are you finally taking us up on that double date offer?" the man chimes in with a soft chuckle, teasing.

Red's jovial mask quickly slides back in place as he moves to Liz's side. "I'm not taking you up on _any_ offer, Philip. You are a terrible businessman."

"That's what I keep telling him," the woman agrees with a smile.

"This is Amy," Red says, introducing Liz. "A very dear associate of mine. Amy, this is Mary and Philip."

The couple nod.

"Nice to meet you," Mary says.

"So are you staying here, too, Amy?" Philip asks, clearly not done with the questions.

Liz holds his gaze for a moment. There's something about this stranger that feels oddly, vaguely familiar. "Actually," Liz says, throwing a look at Red, "I'm staying at a motel _nearby_."

"Oh how come?"

"I had some... issues at home."

"Pest," Red quickly interjects with a sharp smile and something acidic in his tone. It's not the wine.

"How terrible," Mary sympathizes. "We went through this last year with our beach house. It was an absolute nightmare."

"Yeah," Philip agrees. "Cost a fortune, too, and those fumes. God, that smell. Sometimes I think it will never really go away. Honestly, I'm not sure what's worse: the pest or the pesticide."

But Red is quick to interject: "Would you excuse us for a minute?"

* * *

Once the door closes and they remain alone in the corridor, she launches her first question: "_Amy_?"

"I'm afraid unexpected guests don't get to pick names."

"So did _Mary_ and _Philip_ come up with their own?"

The answer is a chuckle and a deflection: "I thought there was a 'no meet' restriction on our interactions."

"The review team cleared me."

His features soften and he offers her a small nod.

"You don't look very surprised," she says pointedly, studying his face. _What did you do?_

He doesn't respond and turns to continue walking.

She doesn't move, only her eyes follow him. He feels her gaze burning his back. "Tom confessed." The words are thrown after him like hooks on a fishing line. Red stops and she waits until he looks at her. "He told them he attacked me, that I was defending myself."

"He did," he confirms quietly. "You were."

Her gaze shifts to his right hand, to the fresh bruises and the neat row of stitches that form a dark arch near the base of his thumb. "Did you visit him?"

He looks at his hand, then back at her.

She clarifies the question: "Did you beat him?"

His jaw sets, his spine straightens with tension. He's clearly not used to being accountable to anyone about anything, but she keeps staring at him, expecting - _demanding_ \- an answer.

It comes reluctantly, then sharply: "No." He waits. She doesn't challenge him this time, so he adds: "I merely suggested he do the right thing."

"Or else," she adds quietly with a sad smile that slices him. Is that disappointment? Did some part of her expect Tom to do this on his own accord?

He studies her. She looks weary. Hollow. _Jagged_. "I should have removed him sooner," he hears himself say.

"I should have known sooner."

"You fell in love."

Her face twitches with a quick, bitter smile. "Is that supposed to be a comfort?"

She collects no answer, just a plea. "Don't lose yourself to this, Lizzie."

"'This'?"

"This... illusion," he says. "_Him_," he corrects himself with a flicker of a snarl. "Let go before..." he trails off, hesitating, "... before it turns you into something you won't recognize," he finishes, voice strained with emotion.

His injured words land with impact. She looks scared for a moment but masks it quickly."If you want me to let go, answer my questions."

He really should ask her to leave.  
He doesn't. "Is that why you're here?"

"Isn't that why you're here?" she pushes back, the dimmed light in her eyes flaring up again. How dare he sound disappointed? "Isn't _that_ why you let this _illusion_ fester, too? For information?"

She moves. Steps closer.  
He stays. It's a familiar choreography by now. Distinctly theirs. Always dancing on the edge of the same conversation that's never allowed to be properly verbalized.

He casts down his eyes, hangs his head.

Shame.  
So much shame.  
It's like extra gravity.

She is witnessing an invisible collapse.  
But then his gaze rises again, filled with sharp focus tucked under a shiny ache, pleading silently for her to try to understand.

_Please understand._

And something is finally allowed to click into place.  
A piece she was holding all along. One of many.  
A spark that ignites the heady mixture of past, present, and future slowly accumulating between them.

She sucks in air, breathes him, and he smells of fire. But she doesn't say anything. Not this time. Not just yet. He could clam up or worse: disappear again.

There's silent recognition, a loaded air, and a long moment of conflicted hesitation.

His hand comes up, slow and careful. Her vision blurs and she can feel the heat of his palm. But he doesn't touch. He doesn't dare and the warmth retreats.

_Coward_.

So she grabs for it, sudden and firm and demanding. Fingers curl around fingers, skinned knuckles knock and rub against each other in some fumbling, desperate search for something tangible even it's just a handful of small injuries. She hates and craves every second of this and her fear from moments ago suddenly resurfaces.

"I enjoyed it," she says after a long pause. Tears muffle and shame blurs the words.

Maybe he understands. _Please understand._

His eyes narrow and his head tilts with concern. "Enjoyed what?"

Her grasp tightens and the confession halts as she swallows back something bitter that's been making her sick to her stomach for the past few days. But in the next moment it lurches back up: "Hurting him." It's followed by a tortured twitch of a smile. "I might have provoked the whole thing. I could have pushed him to pull that gun, I don't know. I'm not sure. I've thought it over and over so many times, I can't remember anymore. I snapped and I wanted to... I wanted to hurt him and it... for a short while it felt _good_. I felt _so goddamned good_ but now..." Now he gets it. She sees it in his eyes and gives an involuntary, helpless tug on his hand. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Nothing," he replies quickly and firmly, but he can't quite keep his voice from cracking.

"But-"

He moves closer, his voice dropping to a soothing semi-whisper. "You are grieving."

"Who grieves like this?"

He carefully clasps her other hand in his. "He hurt and mistreated you in every way imaginable. He is not the victim here."

"Yeah, 'cause that's me, right?" She gives a small, frayed laugh that shatters somewhere in her throat - the most heartbreaking sound he's ever heard.

He looks down at their hands and she follows his gaze. "You are a fighter, Lizzie," he says, glancing back up with all the reassurance he can muster.

She swallows, then looks down. There's another long pause. "Well," a sniffle, "you seem to have done quite a bit of fighting yourself," she remarks with a somewhat lighter tone to try and shift the conversation.

He accommodates her instantly. "Negotiations got a little... _animated_."

"I'd say more than a little." He smiles and would laugh if it didn't hurt so much. Instead, he snorts with a small wince, his breath hitching. "Do you have a broken rib, too?"

He raises an eyebrow. "It's your breathing," she explains. "Kinda... shallow and shaky."

He keeps looking at her, his right thumb rubbing her left wrist.

Her gaze flickers to his lips and he stills at once.

Something else has crept into her voice and a feeling he thought he was no longer capable of fully experiencing is hatching inside him: nervousness. Is she teasing? Is she switching back to "self-soothing" - as she called it - after another gutting, soul-baring moment? "Just bruised, not broken."

They fall into wordlessness again and she feels a sudden, strong urge to say something. Anything. "I should see the other guy, right?"

Conventional attempts to get rid of silences do not always work with the FBI's 4th most wanted. She is learning this the hard way tonight.

_The "other guy" in question is probably dead, you idiot.  
Killed. Disposed of. Buried in a grave no one will ever find.  
Or left somewhere as a warning, an untraceable, decomposing message._

Her hands slip from his. "I um... almost forgot." She reaches into her pocket and produces a ball of fabric. "I found your tie."

Two things, however, are neglected to be mentioned:

First, she almost got into a fight when she recovered it from a member of the medical staff who assisted at his tagging operation. The nurse thought it would make a great souvenir since it belonged to a "real-life psycho." Second, she's been hiding it in her pocket ever since. It's not the best way to keep such a delicate article of clothing on her person that's probably worth more than all her earthly possessions combined, but it was the subtlest. And oddly reassuring.

"Thank you," Red says, gently unrolling it. It's creased all over but he seems grateful all the same.

"I also have a..." She throws a vague gesture towards the front door. "... a box of wine. Bought it to celebrate my reinstatement, and..." _I was planning to drink it by myself, which probably sounds as depressing as it would feel._

She sees him wince at the mention of "box" but before she can say more on the matter, a sudden burst of muffled laughter escapes from the room they exited only a few minutes ago - a quick reminder that they aren't alone. Well, _he_ isn't. Whatever need prompted her to bring up the wine is now losing steam quickly. "But I didn't know you had guests, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. This was a bad idea."

She is turning away, literally switching to flee mode now.  
It's his turn to be brave.

"Lizzie." She turns back and he opens the door to his left for her. An offer. "If you give me 10 minutes, I'll get rid of them."

She glances inside the dimly lit room, then back at him. Conflicted, cautious, but curious as ever.

And he is waiting patiently for her to make a choice: this door or the front one. An entrance or an exit?

The thought of going back to the motel is an uneasy one, she won't even deny it anymore. She can't face those mirrors or the stranger in them staring back at her.

But the thought of staying here? It feels like courting another kind of disaster. Then she remembers the message he left - one sentence in particular that was partially responsible for landing her on his doorstep tonight: _I'll be gone for a short while._

It worried her, the thought that he was about to make a run for it after their last conversation. She shouldn't have told him about the nightmare, about watching him burn, but a few days ago she didn't know it was more than just a disturbing stress dream. A few days ago she didn't have a hastily - _illegally_ \- copied report of the medical pre-screening conducted shortly after his unexpected surrender with long paragraphs detailing third degree burns and various other traumas.

_The two of us have overcome so much._

He wasn't lying about that one. It's a small miracle he's still alive and functioning.

She drifts closer, her gaze searching his. "I know there are things you might never be able to talk about," she says firmly but quietly as if she was afraid he would vanish into thin air like an elusive ghost of a hazy past. "But there are things I need to know. Things I have the right to know." He lowers his head in what looks like a tense half-bow, his gaze like ice on fire, fixed on her - defensive, half- pleading, and so impossibly still again. "I don't wanna fight tonight," she continues. "I don't wanna be angry or badger you with questions. Not tonight," she repeats. "But eventually..."

It's not a threat. Just a fair warning.

He gives a small nod. One way or another, she is going to be his undoing. He offered her that tough and thankless job on the very first day and it seems she is ready to climb on board full-time. Who he once was will aid and desire the completion of her task. What he became, however, will probably never really stop undermining her efforts.

She knows now. He feels she knows - maybe even accepts - that.

And the stage is set for a rupturing head-on collision.

"Still, I'd prefer to hear it from you," she says, tilting her head, still hoping to do this the easy way with the least amount of damage.

There never was an easy way to do this. The damage will be significant, inevitable, and necessary.

But not tonight. A tiny smile tugs at his lips. _Not tonight, Lizzie, remember? _"10 minutes?" he repeats the offer, already pulling away and towards the room where his two other guests were left to enjoy the evening in Dembe's watchful company.

"10 minutes," she accepts.

* * *

_tbc_


End file.
